There’s a video making the rounds on Facebook.
It’s unlikely a new video, but I first saw it Monday night. It’s very brief, but I’ve been told there’s a longer version.
I’m not sure I would be physically able to view much more of the video.
My breath was nearly exhausted from the uncontrollable laughter escaping me when I watched the short version – four times.
A camera slowly zooms in on a curly-haired kid of the male persuasion. He’s perched atop a slide, left arm outstretched and screaming at the top of his little lungs.
Zoom in on his arm and you’ll see a very small tree frog sitting there.
The stray hand of an adult enters the frame and flicks the frog. Instead of hopping off the wailing boy, the frog leaps up, landing just under the kid’s nose.
Hollering intensifies and video ends.
I feel certain no child or amphibian was injured in the filming of the video.
If you’re in need of a little – or a lot of – laughter, check it out. Just visit YouTube and search for “screaming boy and frog.”
Speaking of frogs, some years ago I was enjoying a meal with a friend on the porch of Keifer’s in Jackson.
Ah, the ambiance. A warm spring evening, crickets chirping, stars twinkling, food delightful.
Suddenly I saw movement on my friend’s shoulder. Stunned, I must have simply stared for 20 seconds before speaking.
“Uh, you’ve got, uh, something on your shoulder,” I stuttered, not really able to find the proper word for the crawling thing.
By the time I’d told her something was there, she’d felt it, made a sound of surprise and, with a sound flip of her hand, sent the tree frog flying across other tables of other diners.
Where it landed we never knew. Nor cared.
If we’d wanted protein, we’d have ordered it.
Frogs and fathers
One long-ago summer day my dad was cleaning out our garage.
He was standing on a chair, vacuuming a high shelf; I stood nearby, watching, when a frog hopped in.
“I bet you wouldn’t suck up that frog in the vacuum cleaner,” I said jokingly to my dad.
Clearly, the joke was lost on him.
Leaning over, vacuum hose in hand, he touched the frog and –ssslllrrrppp – that frog was history.
Tears and accusations came quickly.
“I can’t believe you did that,” I said. “I was only kidding.”
Before I could call the SPCA, my dad hopped into action. He jumped from the chair, opened the vacuum, removed the bag and dumped the dusty contents on the garage floor.
And there sat the frog. Stunned, motionless, covered with dirt, but still alive.
It took several hours for the frog – free at last – to regain its senses, but finally it hopped away, thankful, I’m sure, for another chance at life.
I didn’t kiss a frog that afternoon, but my dad was surely a prince.